This blog post is going to contain some sexual references that are bizarre, offensive and downright troubling, including incest and bestiality. 

Point one: people who tell you in detail about their dreams are generally pretty boring.

Point two: because of this, people who tell you about their dreams are usually intensely apologetic about it. The conversation normally begins “I know it’s annoying to talk about dreams but…”

That ‘but’ is pretty important, because it usually means ‘but I want to get something off my chest/need you to make me feel better/am worried that I am horribly abnormal because of this odd thing that kicked off in my brain.’

So. While I have very low tolerance for people who tell me that last night they flew to a castle made of marshmallows and Eamonn Holmes gave them a spoon with which to eat it, when people want to tell me their weird sex dreams, I am usually all ears. Why? Because I have weird sex dreams too.

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This post discusses sleep sex (and sleep ‘other things’). Everything that happens here is 100% consensual, with a guy I trust a lot, and with whom I have had numerous conversations about sleep shagging. It is not an endorsement to go ahead and do this with people who you haven’t had similar conversations with, obviously. 

Apparently on Saturday night I kept a guy awake for hours by repeatedly wrapping my arms round him and begging him to touch my tits.

Yeah, that’s weird, isn’t it?

I was also either 100% asleep for the entire thing, or I have suffered selective amnesia. When he explained to me, very patiently, on Sunday morning that he was a bit knackered ‘because of your weird midnight nipple demands’ you could have knocked me down with a feather. You could also have knocked him down with a feather, because – thinking I was awake – he kindly acquiesced, until eventually he fell asleep on me for a while before I woke him up for more.

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As a certified grumpy bastard, I can tell you that it’s always much easier to be negative than positive. As someone with access to web stats I can also tell you that if you want to get clicks, and you’re not writing porn, you’re always better to be critical than optimistic. I’m throwing all that out of the window today, though, because of a conversation I had the other day that went a little something like this:

“Know what’s brilliant?”

“What?”

“We could have sex now if we wanted to.”

“I’m not really in the mood, but…”

“Ah, but you don’t have to want to, you just have to appreciate how cool it is that we totally could if we wanted to.”

Sometimes I go through miserable phases when I look down at my body and think ‘huh, there are some things that have happened here that are basically irreversible.’ I worry about stretchmarks or consider the fact that I’m no longer able to do the things I did when I was eighteen. I may still be able to get my ankles behind my head to brace against the bedposts, but I’ll no longer do it without a groan of effort. I can bend over sexily, but I’ll say ‘oof’ when I get up. Cramp is not so much an occasional visitor as a permanent unwanted house guest.

But, while it’s easy (and certainly more clickbait-friendly) to snark about the negatives, it’s also worth remembering the benefits of having sex in your thirties. This post is about giving credit to all the things I often take for granted…

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